Like Robins’ Songs


That herd of robins is back,
grazing on what passes
for open plains in the suburbs.
Today, they fill the big circle
of dormant grass
in the middle of the cul-de-sac.
The March sun catches
their orangey red just-so,
making their breasts look like
they’re afire.
Spring used to touch off the tinder
in my heart, spawning fire to a desire
I never fed with the kindling
of heroic feelings.
Those days are over,
only recalled when I read
the charcoal sketches you left
upon my heart’s stone walls
that whistle in spring wind
like robins’ songs.

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